Hero
by Danny Ellas
Summary: As the quest takes its toll on Frodo and Aragorn, they began to rely on one another more and more for understanding and comfort. Eventually, their deepening relationship will require some difficult choices of them both, but will they live to make them?
1. The Keeper of the North

TITLE: Hero

AUTHOR: Conlai

AUTHOR E-MAIL:

PAIRINGS: Frodo/Aragorn, Boromir/Aragorn, Aragorn/Arwen (implied)

RATING: R

WARNING: non-con and BDSM

SUMMARY: As the quest takes its toll on Frodo and Aragorn, they began to rely on one another more and more for understanding and comfort. Eventually, their deepening relationship will require some difficult choices of them both, but will they live to make them?

HERO

Chapter 1

"The Keeper of the North"

_Frodo listened to his companions settle into their beds, even as he did so himself. Gandalf's letter was still clutched protectively in his fist, and he held it close to reassure himself of many confusing things. The pallet beneath him was warm and yielding, and as welcoming of sleep as he could hope for; but no rest would come to the troubled hobbit. His eyes were lightly shut and he kept his breathing slow and soft, so to appear to be asleep. He did not want anyone bothered, for the day had been long and tiresome, and Merry and Pippin and Sam had been hoping for a good night's rest. Even Strider, who sat at the window, smoking his pipe, seemed to have relaxed a little. _

_That was not the first time that night Frodo had found his thoughts dwelling on Strider. Of course, he did realise that it would only be sensible not to put his full trust in him, having shared but one discussion with the arcane Ranger, during which his oddities had roused suspicions in the others. Nevertheless, he could not deny that he felt oddly safe in Strider's presence. And the letter...Gandalf knew of an "Aragorn"who often called himself by the name of "Strider", and though Sam's arguments against this ranger were not without reason, Frodo could not find them supported by any aspect of the man himself that was not pure illusion._

_His back was turned toward the one in question, and he knew he was keeping watch out the dark-paned window at the opposite wall, so Frodo allowed himself to stop feigning sleep. He looked around the rustic room, missing Barliman's offered quarters, which the man had said would be suited to hobbit-folk. He had not hoped for convenience, though, he reminded himself. What he had hoped for, he supposed, was a reminder of home, albeit he would not have voiced this thought to any of his companions. He was beginning to feel quite small and very lonely in this place with all its large, looming abandoned buildings and tall men. That feeling came even with all the long walks on which his uncle had taken him in his youth (a subject still often broached in Hobbiton). He could only imagine how the others, Sam especially, were feeling about being so far from home. _

_Growing suddenly nervous, he found himself looking for something on which to focus in hopes that it would help him sleep, as it had when he was young. He could see nothing, though, for the fire was kept low, and the only light was that of the bright embers, which cast the room in a glowing, unsettling red. An immense disquiet lay heavy upon Frodo, and he found that he no longer wanted to close his eyes, though he was aware of his need for sleep. It felt almost as if a childhood fear were nagging at him, in an unfamiliar place, with a stranger whom he could only trust by his own untested instincts. Worst yet was that something that he could not name was looking for him, hunting him...something dark that he did not understand. He could feel its presence. Faint it was, yet haunting, like a nightmare that lingers for days. It was growing closer, stronger by the minute. His eyes darted once more across the room, and he imagined that the shadows moved. Could they feel him as well? _

_Frodo hesitated in his thoughts, afraid even to let the question cross his mind, but it came unbidden. Could they feel the Ring? _

_A chill took Frodo's body, like a sudden draft of cold air, the source of which could not be found. He held the letter in his hand tighter wrinkling the paper. He decided that he must calm himself, if he were to have any sensible thought. He reminded himself that there was no immediate danger, and found that having Strider nearby was very comforting. He averted his eyes from the dimness at one side of the room, and opted to watch the embers die out in the hearth._

_"Can you not sleep, Frodo?"_

_Frodo jumped at the sound of Strider's soft whisper, startled out of a troubled reverie. He sat up a little, and turning to face him, shook his head._

_"Come over here," Strider beckoned, keeping his voice low. _

_Frodo obeyed, and wrapped his blanket about his shoulders, slipping Gandalf's missive into the pocket of his breeches as he did. He sat down at the Ranger's feet. They were silent for a few moments, and Frodo found himself glancing over the tall man's body, fascinated by his significantly different build. He would have thought that he was quite unobtrusive, but Strider was watching every movement of his eyes._

"_My feet must seem fair small to one of your folk," Strider said with a little laugh. _

_Although he was startled, Frodo laughed as well. Hearing such a stern man jest helped to lighten his spirits, somewhat. "We hobbits wonder how you Men keep your balance." _

_"Many of us don't, much of the time," smiled Strider. _

_As Frodo's eyes adjusted to the shadows of the corner they sat in, he began to notice a slight redness rimming Strider's eyes. Though he was curious, he didn't know if it would be polite to inquire. "Strider, what's wrong?" he blurted out without thinking. He cursed inwardly, and tried to further explain, stammering under the scrutinising_

_At that moment, Pippin entered, having left briefly to the adjacent room to relieve himself. Strider's eyes had quickly fallen upon the door as it opened, and Frodo jumped with fright. _

_Pippin sighed as he turned and slid the old, rusted deadbolt into place. "I don't trust that lock to hold...should something...well, happen."_

_Strider turned back to the window. "No lock would hold should our enemy wish to pass it."_

_Pippin shivered visibly. "Don't say such things, please!" He whispered pleadingly. "I'm frightened enough by all this." He stepped cautiously over Sam and laid down, settling hastily into his blanket._

"_Forgive me," said Strider gently. "Dark speech is not always suited for dark times." Pippin nodded thankfully at this and shut his eyes._

_Frodo stared blankly into the darkness, his brow creased in a disturbed manner. Pippin hardly heard Frodo speaking to him; the hobbit's voice was so quiet. "He's right." _

_Strider looked at him solicitously, regretting having scared them, but said nothing. Pippin's breaths were soon heard to become deeper with sleep. "I am sorry. I'm just worried, and I show it badly."_

"_Tell me truthfully, Strider, do you know that they will find us?" Frodo inquired, steadying his voice._

_Strider shook his head, trying to find a way to explain his thoughts. It was something he'd never been apt at, even as a child. When the emotions of other young ones were so simple, his had been complex, and in all his years, he still could never place the words he sought. These days, he often opted to relate things by means of logic. "They can feel the call of the One, and it leads them to this place. I have learned from my own friends that they are near at hand. If they do miss us, which is hardly likely, then tonight's happenings have posed another threat. Bree is a veritable nexus for strange travellers and an extremely talkative peerage, and, as you can see, that is a dangerous mixture of kinds."_

"_You mean Bill Ferny and his southerner," said Frodo._

"_Yes, and there are others more dangerous, that Ferny would most certainly help if the right price were offered," Strider spat contemptuously. "Ferny's naught but a whore."_

"_I'm afraid," said Frodo, "that I may have made more danger for myself that I can handle."_

"_I don't encourage you to do anything of the sort again, of course, but I beg you not to give anymore worry to the matter. I'm not the only ranger here, you know," Strider disclosed trustingly._

"_There are more rangers?" said Frodo, seeming surprised. "Here?"_

"_Yes," Strider nodded. "Dear friends of mine."_

_Though Frodo didn't notice, Strider smiled broadly as he said this. Frodo's mind drifted back to his own friends, and the Shire, and he succumbed to a terrible longing. Strider paused for a moment, thinking. "I don't suppose you'd mind telling me how old you are?" he inquired abruptly. _

_Frodo shook off the deep nostalgia of his thoughts of his own bed and safe hobbit hole. To him, it seemed odd that Strider asked this question, for many hobbits in the Shire had asked the very same. Strider was the last place he had expected to find a reminder of his beloved home, however trivial. "Fifty," he said softly._

_Strider gave him a puzzled expression, though there were darker thoughts in his mind that he did not let show on his face, for Gandalf had told him how long Frodo had been in possession of the Ring, and he knew full well the effect it had had on Bilbo and Gollum "You do not look it at all."_

_"And you?" said Frodo. He was subconsciously expecting Strider to be anywhere from thirty to forty years old, but he noted that the man acted much wiser, more akin to Gandalf. _

_"Eighty-seven," said Strider, after a moment, his voice wistful. "And I shall not die of my age or any sickness for many years to come."_

_"You don't look it, I assure you," Frodo whispered, astonished. The verse Gandalf had mentioned came to mind, and suddenly Frodo thought that Strider was much more than he claimed or seemed to be. He looked at the Man, as if now he could see more of him. This was not Strider the Ranger, or anyone deserving of such names as Longshanks or Stick-at-Naught, but someone greater, with a strange sort of power emanating from his very being. This was Aragorn._

Pale grey daylight flooded his vision once again as a sudden chill pulled Frodo from his thoughts. He sighed, shivering with cold as the soggy ground gave way to thin mud beneath his feet for the umpteenth time. It felt as if he was a hundred miles out of Bree, when, in fact, the small party had been travelling like snails for less than a day. Depression had begun to overtake his consciousness, as he and Sam, Pippin, and Merry followed Strider over the dreary northern regions.

They had reached Midgewater Marshes by noon. The stagnant, cold pools made the going even slower for the small hobbits. They missed the damp woodland they had so recently left behind, for there, the cold wind and rain found little leeway, and the smell was of loam and wood and not at all intolerable. Now, breezes constantly brought with them the foul smell of marsh water from nearby, and if one stood in one place for too long, one would eventually sink into an inch of freezing water. What must have been hours before, Merry and Pippin had tried to strike up a conversation, but had failed after a particularly annoying swarm of bugs had descended upon them. After that, the companions fell silent, and a dark, cheerless mood lay over the travellers once again. Strider was the only one whose demeanour had not changed, but that was not surprising; he was as quiet and moody as ever he had been, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

Frodo sensed that Strider was growing impatient with the delay they were causing. His expression, however, remained neutral each time he stopped to wait for them to catch up with him, for he knew the pace he had set for them was brisk.

It must have been nearing three o'clock by then, but the sky was as grey-cast and cloudy as it had been that morning, giving the five companions the feeling that hours were stretched far over there limits. Some of them were beginning to question Strider's skills. Sam, especially, seemed particularly convinced that the Man was fallible in the matters of travel in the wilderness, "Ranger or no". Frodo was the only one present who was wholly discouraged from his own suspicions, as he watched the sureness with which Strider stepped, never seeming to falter, as if he could still see his own footprints from passed times he'd travelled this marshland. His attention was often held over long periods by simply watching him. However, this did not keep the march from being tedious.

"Mr. Frodo," said Sam quietly. "Forgive me if it seems I'm prying, but I would swear that I heard you talking with Mr. Strider last night, for quite some time, too."

Frodo nodded. "I was."

Sam looked uncomfortable. "He didn't say anything that seemed, well, suspicious, did he?"

"No, quite the contrary, Sam," Frodo replied. "Why is it you don't trust him? He's done nothing to prove he's not here to help."

Sam eyed Strider suspiciously for a moment, considering him. "I don't mean to be harsh, but I believe he'll have my full trust when we're all safe in Rivendell."

Frodo smiled slightly. "I suppose that's practical."

Aragorn had retreated into his own thoughts, as he often did to make monotonous journeys bearable. Unease nagged at him. There was some evil afoot that chilled him in an oddly familiar way. The feeling was disturbing to him, not yet sickening, but drawing nigh upon it. As the minutes passed, he felt his suspicions confirmed.

The Nine were somewhere near at hand. Since the incidence of the previous night his expression had become grave with worry on the matter. They knew not yet where the Ring was, but he guessed they knew exactly where it was going. He could see that Frodo felt their presence as well, for the hobbit kept glancing over his shoulder, jumping if someone spoke to him, and he shivered, as if chilled. Strider then became more wary, his gaze dodging stealthily in every shadow, searching for any sign of the Enemy.

In such a way the day passed, until night swept over the land with strange swiftness, bringing with it a cold wind to replace the mist of rain that had hung in the air that day.

Strider made camp quickly on the nearest patch of dry turf. Wearily, the hobbits unpacked their gear, and ate a small portion of the food Barliman had sent with them, each thanking him profusely under his breath. Frodo ate nothing, and only sipped a bit of water from his skin, feeling too tired to stay awake. He broke off from the rest of the group. Sam's eyes followed him nervously for a while, but then the worrisome hobbit figured that his master would not be leaving camp tonight. One by one, the other three hobbits spread their pallets on the ground, and were soon asleep.

Frodo sat down next to Strider, who was again taking first watch. The man's features were kept phlegmatic, leaving Frodo to wonder whether he minded having company.

"Aren't you going to eat anything?" he inquired. He remembered that Strider had taken no breakfast in Bree that morning.

"Aren't you?" said the man.

Frodo shook his head. "No, I'm not hungry."

"You should eat. I can wait."

Frodo was puzzled. "Wait how long?"

Strider sighed heavily. "Until we reach Rivendell."

Frodo wondered at that for a few minutes. His eyelids were growing too heavy to uphold.

Strider smiled fondly as the little hobbit at his side fell asleep. Frodo's head lolled over to rest on his shoulder. Tentatively, Strider lifted his arm and put it about the hobbit, who sighed comfortably. Whether it was awake or not, Strider was glad of some company.

"_They are coming for him, Aragorn." _

_Hador's words echoed. Amras stood over Eldin's dead body, weeping little trails of blood that fell onto the corpse. Amras looked up at Aragorn with an unearthly suddenness. _

"_He will not be your last failure."_

_Frodo's scream was all he could hear. Then whispers, and he could no longer separate them from the scream. Then it came back, louder now, and as a Wraith cries for the Ring._

"_They are coming for him."_

Strider's eyes snapped open. His body felt numb from fear. He and Frodo had fallen asleep sitting upright, and the little hobbit still rested peacefully upon his shoulder. Hand shaking in the aftermath of his dream, he stroked Frodo's cheek absently, and found it chilled. He picked him up and laid him back on his pallet, covering him with the blankets already folded at the foot of the bedroll, and then with his own cloak. Wiping cold sweat from his brow, he leant down gently kissed Frodo's lips. Frodo's breath lingered for a moment upon Strider's mouth, and the man sighed, savouring it. Reaching under the cover, he took hold of Frodo's small hand and enclosed it in his own. "I'll not let them take you."

_Frodo was lying on his bedroll gazing at the vast expanse of the starless wintry sky, and he was mesmerised by the way the snow was beginning to fall. For all this he was somehow not cold, though he was aware that under his blanket he wore nothing. He raised his head a little and found three sleeping hobbits at his side. He and Strider were now the only ones awake, he realised, and then felt a tightness growing in his stomach. He sat up, letting the cover slide from his bare chest, and saw that the man was approaching. He stopped for a moment and they held one another's gaze for what seemed like an eternity to Frodo. All the while, Frodo felt that tightness growing to a need that he knew he could not ignore for much longer. Finally, Strider knelt down at his side, and they were kissing, bruising one another's lips in mad passion. Though he was unsure of how it had happened, a sudden burst of bodily pleasure sent Frodo over the edge, and he came hard..._

_Becoming unaware of the fading dream, Frodo's mind shifted back into a state of fear, and he fell from Strider's arms into stifling darkness._

During some dark hour of the night, Frodo awoke suddenly, unsettled by an illusive nightmare. A sheen of sweat covered his brow and he was trembling, but he did not remember of what he had been dreaming. However, as he shifted, he realised there was a pleasantly warm tingle between his legs, and a not entirely pleasant stickiness. The nature of his dream became apparent, and he became very nervous at the thought that someone might have heard him. Strider was the only one awake, and his back was turned toward Frodo. A wreath of silver, wispy smoke hung over the man's head. Frodo saw it grow slightly as Strider blew another thin stream of pipe-smoke from his lips. The posture of his dark silhouette showed that he was sitting up straight and alert, undaunted by the cold, though his cloak was missing...

Frodo looked down. Strider's heavy travelling cloak covered him, having been tucked gently beneath him. The smell of pipe-weed was evident on it, reminding Frodo of Gandalf and Bilbo. Frodo smiled gratefully and snuggled deeper into its folds. Strider must have carried him to his bedroll, he realised.

Faintly, he heard a voice, singing ever so softly in Elvish, and the beauty of it struck him. Only after a few more moments did he realise that it was Strider who was singing. Frodo knew enough Elvish to make out some of the words. "Who is she?" he asked softly, in awe of the man's haunting voice. "This woman you sing of."

Strider turned around suddenly, surprised. He thought for a short moment, and then replied. "Tis the Lay of Luthien...the Elf maiden who gave her love to Beren- a mortal Man," he said slowly.

Frodo could see that Strider was deep in thought, perhaps remembering something. Frodo felt that now that he could almost perceive the age of the man before him.

The familiar smell of pipe-weed was relaxing and sweet, and Frodo inhaled deeply, and then sighed. He looked down, to the figure asleep at his side. Sam's face was as peaceful as Frodo had ever seen, and there was a slight smile upon it. A chill wind blew past, but he pulled his blanket close, and it seemed that it offered more warmth than usual. Though all evil in the world pursued him, he was not afraid now.

He laid down upon his pallet again and nestled into his cover. With the strange image of Strider the Ranger, surrounded by a mist of ambrosial pipe-smoke, he drifted back into sleep.


	2. A Missive and Dark Words

TITLE: Hero

AUTHOR: Conlai

AUTHOR E-MAIL: 

PAIRINGS: Frodo/Aragorn, Boromir/Aragorn, Aragorn/Arwen (implied)

RATING: R

WARNING: non-con and BDSM

SUMMARY: As the quest takes its toll on Frodo and Aragorn, they began to rely on one another more and more for understanding and comfort. Eventually, their deepening relationship will require some difficult choices of them both, but will they live to make them?

Hero

Chapter 2

"A Missive and Dark Words"

Hearing Frodo's soft snores resume behind him, Strider pulled forth from his shirt pocket the bit of parchment he had hidden so quickly at the sound of Frodo's voice. He'd held it so often that now it was like to silk from his constant fingering of it, and it was on the verge of tearing at the soft creases. He unfolded it to view Arwen's flowing script, and the words that he kept close to his heart. Memories filled his mind, shifting from one to another, until his thoughts turned to receiving this treasured missive, only a day ago.

"_They are coming for him, Aragorn," whispered Hador urgently, as he and Aragorn slipped through a backdoor at the end of the hall. The diminished voices of those in The Pony's common room were suddenly silenced as Aragorn shut the door gently behind him and turned to face his fellow ranger. "The horsemen know his whereabouts."_

"_Where did you learn this?" inquired Aragorn. _

"_They crossed paths with Amras and Eldin not two days ago, a mile off the Greenway."_

_Aragorn grew nervous. "Are they here? I would speak with them," he said, doubt already glinting in his voice._

_After a short pause, Hador shook his head sadly. "Amras was killed." _

_Aragorn stood stock still, then bowed his head in grief. Amras was one of his dear friends. "And what of Eldin?"he asked, struggling to regain his voice._

"_I brought Eldin here, unbeknownst to the landlord. I laid him upstairs. He was badly wounded," Hador spoke quietly._

"_Take me to him," commanded Aragorn firmly. Hador nodded and led the way back into the inn. As Aragorn passed the door to the hobbit's room, he noticed that it was cracked open slightly. As he made to close it, he saw Frodo's eyes upon him, surveying him worriedly from his place at the doorframe. Aragorn knelt down before the hobbit. "Stay here," he instructed gently, and he shut the door._

_No one took any notice of the two rangers passing hurriedly through the common room and ascending the stairs. Hador led Aragorn to a darkened end of the upstairs corridor. The door at the unlit end of the hallway bore a tarnished brass number thirteen, hanging crookedly on its rusty nails. _

"_I figured he'd be safe here," said Hador quietly. "None of Barliman's customers like to stay here. Superstitious fools," he scoffed. _

_Aragorn caught Hador's hand as the man reached out to turn the brass knob. "I'll tend to him," he began, his voice low. "But I must ask you to remain with the hobbits."_

"_I had planned to see to that," Hador nodded. "The fifth room?"_

"_Yes. I shall be back as soon as is possible," Aragorn promised. "And Hador,"he said as he opened the door to the room. "Thank you." _

_Hador glanced inside briefly. Aragorn could hear a slight strain in his voice when he spoke. "Would that I had been able to do more for Amras," he whispered. "I am glad of your help. I would have been able to do no more for Eldin. He, too, I may have lost."_

_Though Aragorn said nothing in response, he clapped his friend lightly on the shoulder, conveying that Amras's passing had been no fault of Hador's. He watched Hador turn and retreat until he was entirely lost to the light of the single candle in Eldin's room. He shut and bolted the door behind him, and approached the small bed in the corner, keeping the fall of his soft leather boots on the wood floor silent. The sight of Eldin's face was sombre, for the young ranger seemed pale and without life. Aragorn could not so much as detect the rise and fall of his chest until he had seated himself on the edge of the bed. Eldin opened his eyes slightly and turned his head to look at Aragorn. Aragorn laid his hand gently on Eldin's cheek, careful not to flinch at how chilled the younger man's skin was._

_He forced himself to smile, hoping to give some strength to Eldin. "Remember me?" he asked jokingly._

"_As a boy remembers his father. Yes, Aragorn, I know you." His voice was weak._

_Aragorn drew back the covers to expose Eldin's upper-half. An ugly gash spanned from one side of his rib cage to the other, and around it, the skin was dark, as if bruised. A cloth, soaked in warm water was laid across it. Aragorn removed it. "Hador did well not to staunch the blood flow from the wound," he commented. "It is poisoned with something deadly."_

_He rose and surveyed a small pot that hung over the dying fire. The water in it was near boiling. He reached into a small pouch on his belt and pulled forth six withering leaves of athelas. "Alas, this is near all that is left of my store," he said to himself as he crushed the leaves and dropped them into the water. "I pray it will be enough." He took a clean cloth from a table nearby which he soaked in the water and placed along Eldon's wound in replacement of the other. Eldin cried out weakly in agony, clenching his teeth as the steaming water made contact with his abused flesh. Aragorn did what he could to soothe him._

_Once he had looked over the rest of Eldin's body and cleaned the minor hurts upon him, he covered the ranger's limp form once again and tucked the blanket around his shoulders. Eldin's eyes were shut as if he was slumbering peacefully, so Aragorn was mildly startled when he spoke._

"_My bag is on the table. Pray, give it me."_

_Aragorn handed him the worn haversack, and Eldin took from the pouch a piece of folded paper. He laid it in Aragorn's open hand. "It chanced that I was in Imladris not yet a month ago. The Lady bade me bring you this..." he stopped, trying to regain his breath._

_Though Aragorn's heart jumped excitedly at these words, he remembered Eldin's condition. "Speak no more," he said softly. "Rest, if you are able. I shall stay at your side for a while longer." He slipped the note into his shirt. He brushed his palm over Eldin's eyelids, shutting them gently. He slid his hand down to caress the cold cheek, until he was sleeping, and Aragorn could continue his work without causing Eldin so much pain. He removed the cloth from his wound and laid his warm hands upon Eldin's mangled skin. He focused every ounce of his energy on helping him to heal, on driving the consuming darkness from the body of his dear friend. A low groan escaped Eldin, as he felt a strange heat enter him and spread throughout, burning like wildfire even as it drove away the cold of the Morgul blade that had pierced him so deeply. After several minutes, Eldin's breathing become easier as he relaxed into a shallow sleep._

_Aragorn pulled his hands away from Eldin, a light sheen of sweat upon his brow. He let himself fall onto the mattress at Eldin's side, for he was so drained from giving his energy to another body that he could not yet support his own weight. He found that Eldin's eyes were open once again, yet now they stared piercingly at him, clear and sharp once again, free of the Shadow. A tear shone in the corner of one._

"_Why do you weep?" asked Aragorn, forcing the words out._

"_Amras," whispered Eldin. "I could not save him."_

_With some difficulty, Aragorn moved closer to Eldin to offer him a comforting embrace. He made to lay a kiss on the other's forehead, but Eldin jerked his chin upward and met Aragorn's lips with his own, crushing them together. Aragorn was only slightly surprised by this intimate act, for he knew what Eldin was doing. He parted his lips willingly to welcome Eldin's tongue. Aragorn felt some of the heat passed back into his weakened body, and, after a moment, felt that he could stand again. With a last endearing bite to Aragorn bottom lip, Eldin broke the kiss. "You looked like you needed that," he stated, drying his eyes._

"_I think I may have," Aragorn said as he rose, finding his legs working quite well. "I'll send Hador back up in a moment. Try to sleep." Aragorn shut the door gently behind him, and made his way back down to room five. _

_He found Hador standing outside the partially open door, watching the Hobbits within. "They do not know of my presence," said Hador quietly. "I guess that yet another dirty ranger would frighten them even more than you already have."_

_Aragorn nodded. "That is best. You should go back to Eldin," he instructed. Hador looked questioningly at him, wanting news of his friend's condition. "He shall be fine," Aragorn smiled. "But continue to bathe the wound in heated water, with athelas, if you have it."_

_Hador went quickly back toward the common room, and Aragorn slipped soundlessly in with the hobbits. They were all in bed, but Frodo raised his head from his pillow. "Strider!" he exclaimed softly. "I didn't know where you'd gone - I - well, I was worried."_

_Strider was very nearly touched by this remark. He smiled as he pulled a chair from the corner and set it down by the window. "You should not waste time worrying for me."_

_Frodo laid down again on his pallet, and apparently fell asleep. Strider pulled the letter from his shirt, and slowly, carefully, untied the green silk ribbon with which it was bound. Upon it was neat Elvish script, unmistakeably Arwen's hand. His hands shook with delight as he read it._

_Estel,_

_Amras and Eldin have informed me that you are travelling towards Imladris. I look forward to being with you again, if only for a short while. I received your message from last August, and I believe that the day's heat has taken strange effect on you. I have never known a more impudent man than you, Estel. No, I will not wait for you in my bedchamber, and, if I did, it would not be without a sufficient amount of clothing, my dear. Furthermore, do not so much as expect me to kiss you until you have bathed._

_Glorfindel has set out to find you and your charges. We have learned that Nazgul follow you closely. Please, my love, tread carefully, and come home safely. Your path is dangerous. I love you._

_Arwen_

As Aragorn reread this last sentence for the thousandth time, his heart gave a wild beat. He folded the letter again, and held it gently in his hands, raising his eyes to the star-bound night sky, he whispered, "Amin melleth lle, Arwen." A sudden thought struck him, and he turned, looking towards Frodo. "And you, as well. Goodnight...little hobbit."


	3. They Are Coming For Him

Hero

Chapter 3

"They Are Coming For Him"

When morning came, the hobbits found it as miserable and wet as the day before, though now it seemed a little warmer. Frodo awoke suddenly to the faint greyness preceding dawn, but could not will himself to rise until it became absolutely necessary. It seemed he had only just gotten warm, and he buried himself deep into the folds of his cover. Strider's firm footfalls drew near, and a gentle hand was laid on Frodo's back. It shook him, just enough to bring him to wakefulness. Frodo stretched and enjoyed his last moment of warmth, then rose and reached for his jacket, which he had been using to cover his feet. He huddled into it and went to sit down by the weak fire Strider had managed to start, next to Merry. Pippin and Sam were still asleep. Merry was eating an apple, which Frodo stared at, trying to rouse his appetite, but he blanched visibly at he very thought of food. Strider, having woken Sam and lightly kicked Pippin (as everyone knew very well was what Pippin needed at this time of the morning), took his seat at Frodo's side, half an apple in his hand. He drew a hunting knife from his belt, and with it cut a small piece from the apple. He held it out towards Frodo.

"Here," he encouraged. "It's been a full day since you've taken any food. You should have something."

Frodo looked at it for a moment, trying to convince himself that he was hungry, but eventually just shook his head. Strider turned away, shrugging. He tossed the bit of apple into the fire. Frodo noticed, but before he could protest, he saw Strider's eyes upon him, and the smile on the man's normally stern features.

"I'm not planning to eat until you do," he remarked in a manner Frodo almost thought cheeky. How odd it sounded coming from Strider! It made him laugh after a moment.

"Fine, then," he said, and accepted a larger piece of the apple Strider cut for him. "Thank you." Sometime after the first few bites he took, his stomachache went away, and he realised that he _had _been quite hungry.

They continued their march after that, at no less of a pace, and within the hour of climbing steadily, they had reached higher ground. Spirits lightened considerably at the prospect of leaving the cold marshland behind, but Strider only grew more restless. Questions and concerns plagued him like a disease. Where was Gandalf? He had never known anything serious enough to make the Wizard break such a necessary meeting, especially when someone was desperately depending upon him. And the Wraiths...where were they? Surely, they too would make for Amon Sûl, but, in that case, so would Gandalf. If he had to choose between risking an attack by the nine and risking missing Gandalf...

The sight of the hills before him silenced his thoughts. His mind returned to navigating the most traversable path through them - something he had not bothered to worry about since he was in his twenties. He soon came upon an area of flatland that he could not recall. So accustomed was he to travelling alone that he stopped abruptly, without thinking. Not a moment later something bumped his backside heavily, followed by a small _umph!_ Startled, he turned, but only encountered Frodo, prone upon the ground, just as surprised as he himself was. Instinctively, he extended his hand to help him up, which Frodo took with slight hesitation.

"I'm sorry," he stuttered, brushing mud and grass from his clothes. "I wasn't looking where I was going..."

Strider shook his head. "That was my fault. I ought not stop dead in my tracks when people are walking behind me."

"I was just a bit distracted..."

Strider and Frodo looked downward simultaneously and noticed that they had not yet let go of one another's hands. Gasping, they both jerked away from the other. Frodo thought he might have enjoyed the feel of holding Strider's hand a little too much for comfort. He turned away from his embarrassment, blushing deeply, only to find his three companions staring confusedly at him.

Not long after, as Strider led the hobbits around a tall hillock, Weathertop loomed into view. It stood silent; a ruined monolith of a kingdom long dead. It had been a long while since Strider had come to it, for whatever reason, and a strange feeling of nostalgia bore over him at the stoic image of the watchtower.

"This was the great watchtower of Amon Sûl," he said wistfully to himself. He turned back to the others, who stood, waiting patiently for his direction. "We shall rest here tonight." He listened to the few sighs of relief from the hobbits. Who were tired and, inevitably, hungry.

They found that the hill was traversable, once Strider had located the path that led to a man-made overhang near the summit. This would serve as their shelter.

As they made their way upward, Frodo's spirits plummeted heavily. Though no one said anything of it, fear and concern was written on every face. Gandalf was not there. Something was terribly wrong.

"These are for you," said Strider, handing the hobbits the little blades he'd been carrying. "Keep them close." He watched the hobbits for a moment, and saw that they were awkward with the weight of the short swords. He made a mental note to find some time to train them before they would have need of skill in battle. "I'm going to have a look around," he informed them. "Stay here." He caught Frodo's look of discomfort, and smiled reassuringly before leaving them. He descended the hill quickly, then disappeared into the brush.

Strider had walked a half-mile when the sun went down. As the shades of evening deepened, he picked up a broken dead limb of the appropriate size and shape, and took from his belt an oilskin. He drew the oil-soaked cloth from it and bound it firmly about the wood, then struck flint against tinder and set it alight. The torch didn't seem to penetrate the darkness as it should have, as if its light was somehow quelled.

He made his way steadily to higher, dry ground, his boots encrusted with mud from travelling in drowned valleys. He was searching for Glorfindel, whose coming Arwen had told him of, for they needed the Elf lord's guidance and protection at present. Though Aragorn did not much doubt his skill in battle, he knew that he could not take on any number of the Nine alone. He needed Glorfindel's help in protecting the hobbits, Frodo especially. If the Nine were to take from Frodo what he secretly carried...Aragorn shuddered.

Suddenly, a pungent odour hit him like a wave. He stumbled as he realised with a lurch of his stomach that it was the smell of one dead. He went forward a ways, and as he turned a corner of the natural hedgerow at his side, he fell back with a soft, sickened cry. He dropped the torch onto the path, where the grass began to smoulder beneath it. Before Aragorn lay Amras, one leg trapped beneath his maimed horse. His wide, pale eyes stared up blankly at Aragorn, dim moonlight reflected eerily in them. Dried upon his cheek was a dark trail of blood from his mouth, gaping wide in a terrible scream.

Aragorn eventually felt his heart resume its rhythm, and suddenly tears began to stream from his eyes unchecked. Amras had been a noble man, and a beloved friend to him. To see his fair face stilled in such horrific agony...

Aragorn rose from the muddy ground, and reached out to Amras, gently shutting the man's eyes. He pulled Amras's cloak from under his stiff form and wrapped him in it, covering his face, and carefully freed him from the weight of the dead animal. Numbly, Aragorn dragged the other ranger to the base of a small tree and laid him there, offering a final blessing. His vision skewed by tears, he turned away, refusing to look back. The oil on the torch continued to burn, and he picked it up and stamped upon the glowing tendrils of grass. Aragorn broke into a swift run, now more cautious than ever he had been, feeling the dangers and fears begin to close in around him.

He crested the small hill that sat dwarfed at the sprawling base of Amon Sûl, and let himself slide down its gravelled side. A thick fog had pooled in the dell below, making it impossible to see where Weathertop's path began. Out of instinct, he knelt down and swept his hand through the mist, clearing it long enough for the imprint of an iron-shod foot to be illuminated in the torch-light, and then others similar, leading towards the climbing path. Though the ground was soaked with rainwater, none had yet collected in the depression left in the mud. It had been made not minutes before.

A sudden ring of steel clashing with steel sounded from the summit of the hill, and Aragorn sped off toward the noises. Now, he could hear the hobbits terrified yells, and suddenly, a scream rent the air. Aragorn nearly crumpled to the ground as it ripped throughout his person, but, determined to reach the hobbits, he diligently kept his footing and ran on. There were other stranger noises, as well, that sounded as if they were coming from far beneath the ground; eerie words of a black language he did not know. He reached the wide summit, and as one hooded figure turned and raised his blade, Aragorn drew his own sword and countered the attack with great skill. He waved his torch before him, and his enemy cowered at its light. As he fought, he sought out each of the hobbits, but found only three. The other four Wraiths all stood in one place, not noticing his attack, and he knew that he'd found Frodo. Then, their leader drew back his blade, and drove it downward with terrible force. Frodo's agonised scream filled Aragorn's ears, or his mind, rather. The Wraiths had not finished their cruel work yet: Frodo still had the Ring, but whether he was alive or not was still to be determined.

Aragorn dodged the next blow from his opponent and sprang away, overborne by rage at the thought of pain inflicted upon Frodo. Heedlessly, he threw himself into the midst of the fray, driving his enemy back with fire and sword. Moments later, he came close to being relieved at the sound of Frodo's completely audible cry. If he had taken off the Ring, he would no longer be as vulnerable. As Aragorn turned his head to see that Sam had gotten safely to Frodo's side, one of the Morgul blades cut into his side. With an enraged growl, he drove the Wraith that had attacked him off the edge of the flat summit. He was forced to pause as pain coursed through his being.

Three other of the hooded figures had fled, receding back into the starless darkness, but one remained, poised for a second attack. Aragorn's back was toward his enemy, but he felt the Wraiths presence better than any other sense would allow. He turned only as he let the torch fly from his hand. The brand embedded itself in the spectral face of the Nagûl. With another sickening screech, it, too, fled.

"Strider!" Sam's shout was desperate. Aragorn rushed to the hobbits, and they quickly cleared a space for him at Frodo's side. He picked up the knife that had fallen at Frodo's side. "He has been stabbed by a Morgul blade," Aragorn said breathlessly, his own side growing cold. He threw the hilt to the ground in disgust as it disintegrated into a foul breeze. His pain was nearly forgotten as he looked down at Frodo's pale face, still harbouring an expression of shock. "This is beyond my skill to heal," he said as he lifted Frodo arduously from the ground. "He needs Elvish medicine."

Leading them down to the outcropping where they'd made camp, he helped them gather their things with all possible speed. "Are any of you hurt?" he asked, helping Pippin on with his haversack. The three hobbits shook their heads in negation. "Good," said Strider. "Come, now. Quickly!"

Even in the blind dark Strider knew his way through the forests in this land. Despite his wound, which he did not mention, he kept a gruelling pace. "We're six days from Rivendell!" Sam yelled as he ran. "He'll never make it!"

Strider did not respond. He could not. He knew that the possibilities of Frodo reaching Rivendell were small, if at all existent. Already, the little hobbit was incoherent, crying for Gandalf, crying in pain for help. "Hold on, Frodo."There was a catch in Strider's voice.

For nearly two hours they continued, the hobbits dutifully running along behind their guide, and Strider carrying a delirious Frodo over one shoulder. He stopped only when he heard one of the hobbits fall to the ground behind him. He halted and turned to see Merry and Sam, who looked ready to collapse themselves, helping Pippin up from his hands and knees. He fell back, taking them now at a slower walk, and placed his free hand on Pippin's back. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "but I had to get you all as far away from them as possible. You know what they want." Pippin nodded shakily. "And now you know how far they're willing to go to obtain what they want. They will kill every one of us without hesitation if they find us."

He led them into a patch of dense underbrush, careful with his charge. The thicket soon opened up to a clearing, and to the hobbits it seemed like to a small room, with four high, vine-covered walls. Strider laid Frodo down on a bed of moss and soft loam, removing the hobbit's weskit and shirt. The wound he exposed was deep and bleeding heavily, and dark veins had surfaced around it. He removed his warm cloak to cover the shivering hobbit. He opened the pouch at his side, but found only three leaves of _athelas _left to him. They had withered and dried, and so he resolved to boil them to salvage any virtue left in them.

"Sam," he said softly. In a moment, Sam was at his side, desperate to help his injured master. "Lend me one of your pots. I need you and the others to stay here and watch over Frodo. Do any of you carry flint and tinder?"

Sam nodded as he took his pack from his shoulder and detached one of his pots from it. He handed it to Strider, nodding. "I do."

"Good, get a fire going, Sam. I'll return shortly. _Stay here."_

Sam complied, not voicing his fear of another attack while they were alone. When Strider had gone, he turned to Merry and Pippin. "Help me find some wood and stones, if you will," he requested, and they set to work building a fire, making sure it would not create much smoke. Sam couldn't seem to stop glancing back worriedly at Frodo, who was still gasping for air and choking on pained sobs.

Once the precious dry branches they'd gathered had caught, he went and seated himself close to his master. "Mr. Frodo," he whispered soothingly. He took Frodo's cold left hand in his own warm one, and he flinched at the feel of it. Frodo's skin felt so lifeless, like he'd already...Sam could not so much as bear to think the word. "Mr. Frodo, can you hear me?" Merry and Pippin looked on with tears in their eyes at Sam, whose voice was cracking with sadness. Frodo responded only with a despondent look into Sam's hazel eyes, as if to say he was sorry. Sam looked back into Frodo's eyes, and restrained the cries of despair from bursting from his aching throat. Frodo's beautiful sapphire eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, the colours in them shone with unearthly light, like blue flame. Sam shook his head. "You're not givin' up," he said, brushing sweat-soaked curls from Frodo's brow. He lowered his voice to whisper. "I can't explain it, but something inside me's saying that you've got something more to do before...the end, and so do I. This ain't your time," he wept.

Pain assailed Frodo's body, and he shut his eyes against the bright light above him. The night was nearly dark enough save the moon and stars bearing down over him, but the fire burning next to him was like staring into the Sun. Strangely, it seemed that the black veil cast over the light and the world was the real source of the pain, though he was thankful for what he thought it to be doing. The pain became bearable again in a few moments, and he could open his eyes. Sam's gentle face was above him, and though he could hear his friends voice he could find no words. All he could do was look to Sam, for any amount of strength. Sam was giving it, working like mad to pass some of it on to Frodo, but it was beyond Frodo to reach it. He could feel the barrier between himself and the living world growing by the minute, as if a skin of cruel armour thickening around him. It was enclosing him, suffocating him. _It was killing him._

The sound of running water caught Strider's sharp ears. He limped toward it, remembering the stream from his journey to Bree. Once he'd reached the water's edge he leant down and filled the pot to capacity. Even in the night he could see the dark tinge clouding the water, as blood dripped down from his side. Though he was growing dizzy, he knew that Frodo's hurt was worse and far more dangerous. Diligently, he got to his feet and started back to toward the glade.

Sam stood and reached for his sword as he heard the footsteps approaching, but relaxed when Strider emerged from the thicket at his right. "Put your blade away, Master Gamgee."he said, trying to catch his breath through clenched teeth. "I am no enemy of yours."

Sam now noticed the man's limp, which had worsened on his way back. Strider set the pot in the fire, keeping the handle safely away from the flames. "Strider, you're hurt," Sam said, concerned.

Strider smiled, but Sam saw the pain concealed beneath the gesture. "You _have _had a change of heart, Master Gamgee."

"You would have died saving him," Sam said quietly. "I'd trust anyone that'd do that."

"Thank you, Sam. Having your trust is greatly treasured." He dropped his voice, so that Sam did not hear it.

"It makes me feel much safer, not having you out for my blood." He took an old, soft cloth from his pack and unfolded it, then dipped it in the warm water.

"That won't help, will it?" Sam asked. "The water ain't even near boiled:"

"No, it isn't, but until the water is hot enough to clean the wound this will do to soothe the pain." He uncovered Frodo's maimed shoulder and dabbed around the injury gently. Frodo tried to pull away as Strider pressed the warm cloth into the wound itself, but Strider persisted, slipping a hand under Frodo's blood-stained shirt and rubbing his cold chest to assuage the pain. Frodo relaxed, and succumbed to Strider's touch. By the time Strider felt he had sufficiently calmed Frodo, the water was beginning to boil. He gathered the last of his _athelas _leaves and crushed them, then dropped them into the pot. A sweet aroma instantly filled the air, and the others who were unhurt suddenly felt less weary. Though Sam did his best to solace his friend, holding his hand near his own face, Frodo groaned though clenched teeth as Strider placed the steaming cloth over the stab-wound, letting it bleed freely.

"He'll bleed to death!" cried Sam.

Strider lifted the cloth slightly, and Sam saw that Frodo's blood had become marbled with a strange blackness. "This may serve to flush out some of the poison," said Strider. "And if he does die, then it will be a mercy for him to bleed to death rather than remain with this sickened blood flowing in his veins."

Though grief-stricken, Sam nodded in agreement as he brushed his hand over Frodo's cheek.

Once Frodo was used to the heat of the water, he quieted, and his breathing became easier. Weakened by loss of blood, he ceased to struggle when pained. When the blood flowed red again, Strider laid his hand over the wound. Several minutes passed, and, somehow, Frodo's wild, bloodshot eyes steadied. He even gave Sam's hand a little squeeze, which brought Sam an insurmountable wave of new hope. "Look! He's not hurting so bad anymore! What do you suppose..."

"Strider, of course! I never did doubt he could work such a miracle," exclaimed Merry, smiling.

"No, the leaf, mostly," Strider corrected good-naturedly. "And that will soon wear off, unfortunately. If you will, Sam, bathe that wound for me."

Sam nodded, obviously happy to comply. Strider was glad that the others had directed all their attention towards Frodo as he gingerly removed his leather jerkin and unbuttoned the doublet beneath it. The gash on his side looked worse than what was on Frodo's shoulder, but Strider could only imagine how bearing the Ring would worsen the effects he was beginning to feel. Also, he remembered the odd swelling on Frodo's chest, and how it had pained the hobbit so. He feared greatly that a shard of the blade had embedded itself within Frodo, but he realised that he could do nothing for it at present. They would have to hasten onward to Rivendell, and he and the hobbits would have to bear the toil, and Frodo would have to bear the delay.

Taking another clean cloth from his bag, he dipped it into the steaming water and applied it to his injury, brow knitting in pain. Distracted as he was, he did not notice Pippin's quiet approach.

"Oh!" gasped the young hobbit. "Strider, you're hurt." Pippin was confused. "Why aren't you as bad off as Frodo?"

"Sauron's evil was already at work in Frodo's body," Strider said, mentioning nothing of his suspicions.

Pippin glanced worriedly at his cousin, then leant down and picked up Strider's worn jerkin, studying it absently. "I don't know how you've managed to ignore that, running all this way, carrying Frodo and all. It must be quite painful."

Strider wet the cloth again. "I suppose I've learned to ignore it, after so many years...ouch." He winced as he touched the cloth to his injury. Pippin grinned.


	4. Another Failure

Hero

Chapter 4

"Another Failure"

When Strider had finished tending his own wounds, he turned his attention back to Frodo, sending the others off to the few hours of rest left to them. In those few hours, the sky began to lighten very slightly, and birdsong gradually surrounded the grove. Though his eyes had grown tired and he could hardly uphold his head, he sat at Frodo's side through the entire night, bathing the little hobbit's hurt and, occasionally, his own. He'd kept a keen watch for danger, but as the dawn closed in on Middle-earth, his fear lessened and he allowed himself to lie down next to Frodo. Frodo's eyes were half-lidded with weariness, but he continued to gasp for air, quietly, feebly. Another wave of nausea and dizziness overcame him, and Strider felt as if he could not rise. Within mere seconds, he had drifted into a light sleep.

"_They are coming for him..."_

_The crimson pool that surrounded Amras's corpse darkened, deepened. In Strider's arms lay Frodo, his wide eyes as milky orbs stared blankly at him, still pleading for a release from the suffering._

"_They are here."_

The growing daylight filtering through the dense canopy above Strider came as a shock to his eyes. Sweat was dripping in beads down his cheeks, and the coldness of it was sickening. He was surprised to find his doublet undone, and Pippin bent over him, gently wiping blood from his side. He sat up, with some difficulty.

"Pippin, what are you doing?" he asked, his voice coming out more weakly than he'd expected.

"Well, I suppose that someone must take care of the caretaker every now and again," he whispered. He saw Strider glance towards Frodo. "He's been sleeping right peacefully, I'd say. But, if I may be so bold-"

Merry, who had only just risen, rolled his eyes. "You've never needed anyone's permission before."

Pippin continued, ignoring Merry. "Every time you'd shift the slightest bit away he'd get restless. I think he likes you." Pippin gestured to Sam. "Now, him - he's been tossing and turning all night. Can't sleep when his Frodo's hurt, that Sam."

Sam was crouched by the fire, carefully tending the small flames back to a blaze. "I went and got more water. I figured Mr. Strider lost enough rest already."

"Thank you, Sam," said Strider as he got to his feet. He took a deep steadying breath, trying to ignore his loss of energy. Carefully, he bent down and brushed his hand over Frodo's cool, damp brow. Frodo woke slowly, and his reddened eyes stayed half-lidded. Sam already had the water bubbling, and Strider bathed Frodo's shoulder thoroughly. As he gently prodded the area with his fingertips, he noticed slight swelling nearer to the right side of Frodo's breast. Using only the pads of his thumbs, Strider pressed lightly upon Frodo's skin to see if he could find what had caused it. Frodo moaned in pain at this pressure, eyes widening hysterically. Strider immediately pulled away, laying a hand upon Frodo's brow. "Hush, Frodo," he soothed. "Take a deep breath." Frodo turned his head this way and that, as if trying to find more contact from Strider's hand

He turned to look at the others. Merry and Pippin were trying to reassure poor Sam, whose eyes were brimming with tears. They all looked tired and hungry, and Strider regretted having to push them onward. "Come," he said, his voice as clear as he could make it. "We shall have to go on soon." From his satchel he took the last of his apples, and gave three of them to the hobbits. When Sam saw Strider bite into the fourth, he immediately felt spiteful. He'd almost expected Strider to give it to Frodo. He was about to help Frodo eat the apple Strider had thrown to him, when suddenly, the man bent down and gently opened Frodo's mouth. Sam nearly gasped when Strider pressed his lips to Frodo's. He looked to Merry, who was viewing this strange spectacle with equal confusion. However, Pippin was smiling admiringly.

"Well that makes sense," said Pippin, seeing Sam and Merry's disapproving reaction. "I would have thought that you of all hobbits, Sam, would have seen a mother bird feeding her young."

Sam understood, then. Frodo looked too delirious to move a muscle, and he might have choked trying to eat a hard piece of apple. Strider wasn't all that bad, come to think of it. Resourceful, at the least.

Merry still seemed bemused. "Are you suggesting that Strider's a mother bird and Frodo's his baby? You're out of your bloody mind, Pip."

Strider continued until the apple was half eaten, and took a single bite for himself, to knock the edge off his hunger. He took the last clean rag left in his haversack and soaked it in the clean water Sam had brought, then wrapped the remainder of the apple in it.

Merry and Pippin gathered all their gear and Sam extinguished the fire, watching as Strider carefully readied Frodo for another long march held in his arms.

"Will yoube alright?"asked Sam, seeing Strider involuntarily clutch at the gash on his side.

He managed a smile. "If I'm not dead, I'll tell you that I'm well."Holding his breath to keep from voicing the cold pain in his side, Strider picked up Frodo and rose to his feet. Once he'd started walking, the pain became easier, or else had gone numb, but either helped him to keep a quick gait. The hobbits had no trouble keeping up today, after having rested and eaten, and they were driven by need love for Frodo.

The day passed quickly, driven onward by lack of time, no doubt. By evening, Strider was fairly surprised at the hobbits' lack of complaint. Knowing that they were growing hungry and surpassingly weary, he slowed and looked around for a place they might rest.

Once having caught his breath, Pippin moved forward with unquenchable curiosity, for, though they climbed steadily upward through the hilly terrain, the woodland had grown thicker and darker. Sam and Strider both saw the look on Merry's face that denoted that he had a bad feeling about something. He knew Pippin so well, that he always seemed to anticipate his other half's predicaments. Tension mounted in an odd manner, with the silence becoming increasingly ominous. Strider was about to call out for Pippin to come back, when a loud yelp of fear made everyone start.

Strider quickly got a better hold on Frodo and ran forward, recognising Pippin's voice immediately. The cry led him to a dark glade, and Pippin, fleeing from some terror, collided heavily with his legs and held on as if for his life. Reflexively, Strider's hand was ready upon his sword, but upon identifying the young hobbit's assailant he burst into laughter. The others followed closely behind him, but had not noticed yet what had amused there guide so.

Wordlessly, the Dunedain laid Frodo's body on the ground, where the halfling blended as blue-green shadows cast by the fading daylight on the leafy ceiling dappled and played upon his pale features. Just as the others entered the glade and became stricken, as Pippin had, Strider took a stick from the ground and gave the figure nearest him a sound rap on the head. The great troll did not move, but only sat there, expression captured in a moment of surprise, graven in stone.

After this display, everyone allowed themselves a little nervous laughter, even Pippin, who still seemed a bit shaken. Strider had meant to begin preparing a bit of food for the hobbits, but a sudden chill assailed him. The chill soon became an odd, sickening dizziness, and the dizziness became blindness, and then he felt nothing.

Strider knew not how long it was until he woke. Pippin and Merry were bent over him, their faces pictures of fright. "Sam! Sam, he's awake!" Pippin yelled happily. Strider tried to sit up, and soon found a hobbit behind each of his shoulders, helping him.

"We were worried!" Merry said, seeming very relieved. "You went deathly pale, and then you just..."

"Fell over," added a very soft, but very familiar voice.

Strider looked, and there was Frodo, still sickly and prone upon the ground, but awake, and capable of speech. Strider thought he'd never feel so thankful again. "Frodo!" he cried. "When did you find it in you to wake?"

"It's a wonder," said Sam. "I found some spare food I'd brought from Bree, and cooked it up for supper, as I didn't want it going bad, and we figured you and Mr. Frodo would need a bit of victuals, in your states. And would you believe, he comes to soon as he can smell it!"

"It's no mystery, really," Pippin said, looking at Strider. "Everybody knows food will cure a hobbit better than anything will."

Soon after, Sam had finished the cooking, and they all ate as they hadn't in a while. Frodo even managed to take a bit of the stew Sam had concocted, slouched in Strider's lap, as he could not keep himself upright. The others had seated themselves in a small circle on the other side of the fire, and so Strider could converse quietly with Frodo, keeping him conscious.

"Please don't tell Sam," Frodo began. "But I think I may have gone blind. I can see nothing, but for a faint glow about you."

Strider understood immediately, but felt it appropriate to press the matter. "Why do you look toward us when you speak, if you cannot see where we are?"

"I have another sense, I think." Frodo sounded as if he was losing his breath again, and his voice grew quieter. "But it's wrong somehow. I didn't have it before, and I feel afraid to use it. It doesn't feel quite natural."

"You're not going blind, Frodo," Strider assured him, helping him to finish the last of the stew. "But the Shadow has come over your eyes. I fear only the Lord Elrond can heal you now."

"But why is it I can see you?" he asked, almost inaudibly. "Why do I see you as light?"

"It may be that the blood of the elves is still in my veins, however slight. Listen to me Frodo, you're beginning to see as they see, to sense as they sense. That is what you must fight, if you can." Frodo was nearly unconscious again, but Strider kept speaking, hoping to be heard. "You know who, and what you are Frodo. And if that is not enough, then I know you. You are already a hero in my eyes, Frodo, no matter what happens after this." He held Frodo closer still, and slipped a hand into the Halfling's shirt and laid it upon the cut, barely able to endure the cold of the poison gathered about it. "Remember who you are, Frodo. It is all that can now protect you, now. Remember who you are."

"Aragorn," Frodo said quietly, briefly grasping at the hem of Strider's jerkin. Then, his fingers went limp and he relaxed entirely into Strider's embrace.

Carefully, Aragorn laid Frodo back onto the pallet, praying to the Valar that the hobbit would sleep with no trouble, and that he would wake again, come morning.

An hour passed, and all light faded from the distant horizon. The glow of the fire was isolated to the glade; beyond that, all was dark. Strider could feel his condition worsening, but he kept a vigilant watch while the hobbits, who had cared for him, took some rest. Frodo had fallen into a fitful sleep, sometime shivering with cold, sometimes murmuring fearfully. But, when this would happen, Strider would rise and limp over from his post, and lay his hands upon the wound and upon Frodo's brow. This seemed to help less every time, for Frodo's health was waning, and Strider, too, was beginning to feel the cold.

Late in the night, sometime near the chilled dawn, Strider began to doze. The sickness was creeping upon him again: his eyes were dimming and his breathing was troubled. Then, with no warning, a scream like one out of hell rent the still air. Strider leapt to his feet and drew his sword, prepared to die defending the hobbits if there was another attack. He looked to see Sam, Merry, and Pippin rising as well, searching the darkness for the source of the sound. Strider bothered the embers until the fire had caught again, and threw some dry kindling atop to set the blaze. Just before the glade was lit, the unearthly scream came again, though it was now softer, weaker. It was Sam who first realised what the sound came from. Strider's eyes followed him to Frodo, whose eyes were wide open, but unseeing, their deep azure reduced to a pale blue, as if they had turned to ice. On his white face a cold sweat had beaded, dampening his curls and making them cling to his brow. He was practically writhing upon the ground from pain, clawing at his left shoulder as if to rip the poison from his body. Strider joined Sam at his side, and took hold of Frodo's arms, restraining him. Frodo struggled frantically, but Strider kept a firm hold. It seemed to need an eternity before Frodo lay still. Strider left his side for a moment, tired, and barely able to think on what was to be done next. Then, Frodo cried out again, louder, almost as if he was calling for someone. He was answered.

Not far away, the eerie moaning of the Riders could be heard, as if brought to their ears on a foul wind. Frodo could hear them, too, and he turned his head to and fro as if he heard words that the others could not catch. Strider gathered several broken limbs and set them alight, giving one to Pippin and one to Merry, and quickly searching the surrounding brush using his own. Sam leant down, stroking his master's brow feverishly. "Look, Frodo,"he said, glancing upward. "It's Mr. Bilbo's trolls." Frodo looked not to hear him, but cast a desperate gaze upon his friend, begging for help. Sam laid his palm across Frodo's chilled skin. He turned to Strider, who was clutching his side while preparing the others for an attack. "He's goin' cold!" Sam exclaimed, near tears.

Pippin and Merry stood around Frodo as well, ready to protect him. Pippin looked to Strider, frightened. "Is he going to die?"

Strider saw Sam and Merry cringe as Pippin voiced their worst fears, but told them the truth of the matter. "He is passing into the Shadow-world. He'll soon become a Wraith like them."

As he said this, another shrill cry of Frodo's gained an answer out of the darkness, and deep forest shadow began to move. The air was vibrating.

"They're close," Merry said, looking around, expecting to see the tall, black figures at any moment. Pippin drew closer to his older cousin, trembling at his words.

Strider decided then that they must move onward that night. The Nine had nearly found them out, and he was in no condition to protect the hobbits. But something would have to be done before Frodo could move on, and he was without supplies. "Sam," he called, and Sam tore himself reluctantly from Frodo, letting go of his master's hand with a quiet prayer. "Do you know the athelas plant?" he asked urgently, recalling that Sam enjoyed gardening.

"Athelas?" Sam mimicked, clearly at a loss.

Strider thought quickly, though his frustration was growing. "Kingsfoil," he prompted, remembering the name some knew the plant by in Bree.

"Kingsfoil!" said Sam, understanding. "Aye, it's a weed."

Strider took no time to explain that this plant was far from being a weed. "It may help to slow the poison. Come!" He thrust a torch into Sam's hand and led him into the night.

Sam's stomach churned with fear as he stepped out of the thicket, where the brush was too dense for his torch to provide enough light, so he stayed close to Strider as he searched for the uncommon weed he had spoken of. Vigilant, he pressed on, reminding himself that it was for Frodo.

Aragorn felt as if he'd found a mountain of gold as he ran across a large cluster of athelas, winding around the base of a thorn-bush. Drawing out his hunting knife, he cut a few sprigs, and was about to call to Sam, when sharp, cold steel touched his neck.

For a split second, he knew his life to be over, and he made to yell to Sam to run back to camp, but he realised that he felt none of the deathly air that gathered about the Wraiths, but a pleasant sensation, that made him think of home.

"What's this?" rang the silver-toned voice. "A ranger, caught off guard?"

His fortunes looked up as he did, to find an Elf-maiden staring down at him, sporting a half-smile made for mischief. He stood as quickly as he was able and embraced Arwen. As they broke away, she looked down to her hand, which she's rested on his side, and gasped. She rubbed the cold blackened blood between her fingers and looked to her lover, eyes agleam with fear. Aragorn only shook his head. "Go," he told her.

Minutes later, Strider listened intently as the quickening thrum of Asfaloth's hooves receded into the dimness. Somewhere nearby, the howl of a Rider sounder, and he felt his heart bleed for Frodo and his love. He feared they might not reach Rivendell.

"What are you doing?" raged Sam, horrified at being so suddenly separated from his master. "Those Wraiths are still out there!"

Strider took a moment, then turned and gathered the hobbits to him as the haunting sounds drew closer. "If any of us can protect Frodo, she can, Sam. Light more torches, quickly!"

Rustles began in the bushes, and soon a cold fog rolled over the ground. Blood spilt from the cut on Aragorn's side with each beat of his heart, and the night grew darker. Though sounds were becoming fainter, Aragorn could hear Pippin crying softly now. He mustered his remaining strength and will as a black horse stepped into the glen, and covered the hobbits with his body. The remaining four spectres emerged from the forest beyond, and they raised their blades, ready to kill.

"Run," Aragorn said softly. "Don't stop."

"But-" came Pippin's frightened voice.

"Go!" Aragorn roared. A Rider made to go after the halflings as they fled, but Aragorn took up a brand and his blade, wielding both before the Wraith, and it's steed reared upward, whinnying frantically. One heavy hoof caught Aragorn's shoulder, and he was thrown backward with a cry. Desperately trying to stand, he encountered a sharp pain in the back of his thigh. Gasping, he withdrew part of a splintered branch and threw it aside.

He looked up. Towering over him was the Witchking, blade drawn back to strike, and take for a prize the last King of Men, the last man Sauron feared.

They hated one another in that instant; Aragorn and the Lord of the Nine. Aragorn was the one King that Sauron would rather have beneath his power that he, and he was jealous of this. Or perhaps he was reminded of what he once had been, high and noble...pure. And the Witchking had been the one to stab Frodo. Frodo, who Aragorn had grown to love more than his own life. Now there was nothing Aragorn could do to avenge this.

Aragorn tightened his fingers around his blade and shut his eyes. But, just before falling into oblivion, he thought he heard the beating of hooves on the ground, the falls of lightly running feet. Faintly now came the angry cry of a Nazgûl, and through his closed eyes he saw a final burst of silver light.


End file.
